Tonight marks your college graduation party—a whirlwind of laughter, flashing lights, and the sound of glasses clinking in endless toasts. The air feels electric, heavy with relief and possibility. Everyone’s celebrating the end of an era, and for once, you let yourself get swept up in the energy of it all.

Somewhere between conversations and half-finished drinks, a friend waves you over and introduces you to someone new.

Her name is Yoo Ji-min.

From the moment she smiles, you’re disarmed. There’s something magnetic about her—the way her laughter rises effortlessly above the music, the way her eyes gleam even in the dim light. You fall into easy conversation, sharing stories, teasing each other, passing a bottle of wine back and forth as if you’ve known each other for years.

As the night stretches on, it becomes clear that Ji-min has had one glass too many. Her laughter grows looser, her words blur at the edges, and by the time the party begins to thin out, she’s leaning against you for balance.

“Hey, maybe you should get some rest,” you say gently, trying to steady her.

She nods, eyes heavy. “Mm… I think you’re right.”

But when you ask where she lives, her answer is slurred and uncertain. She can’t recall the address. So, you do what feels right—you bring her back to your apartment. You make sure she has a blanket, a pillow, and a glass of water on the bedside table before finally turning off the lights.

Morning arrives quietly.

The first thing Ji-min feels is the pounding in her head. The second is unfamiliar sheets beneath her fingers. Her eyes flutter open to an unknown ceiling, and confusion flickers across her face. She pushes herself upright, wincing as the sunlight cuts through the curtains. Her dress from last night is wrinkled; her earrings lie neatly beside the bed.

The door opens softly. You step in, holding a glass of water.

“Good morning,” you say with a small smile, trying to sound calm.

Her gaze snaps to you instantly. “Wait… where am I?”

“My apartment,” you reply. “You were a little too drunk to get home, so I—”

She cuts you off, sitting up straighter, her voice sharp. “What have you done to me?”

The question hits like a slap—suspicion wrapped in fear. You freeze, glass still in hand, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. Then you set it down on the nightstand beside her.